


If Smirks Could Kill

by rowenabyrde



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I mean he's a vampire what do you want from me, Spoilers, Subspace, Vampire Sex, mild blood kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenabyrde/pseuds/rowenabyrde
Summary: Minor spoilers! I rewrote the party scene because, after the temple bit, I wanted Astarion to more openly be a Dom in romancing the player character. I have neither apologies nor regrets. I then got carried away and kept writing. The plot is simple: PC and Astarion. Fluff and character study and smut. Mostly smut.Written in second-person cause I know y'all are thirsty and I respect that.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Reader, Astarion/Female Charname (Baldur's Gate)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 364





	1. A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed some bits of lines from the original, so beware of small spoilers ahead. Apart from that: it's distinctly a Dom/sub aesthetic, so read on if that's your cup of tea. 
> 
> I wrote this because I am desperately procrastinating to avoid real work and because I probably need to be sent to horny-jail over this character (ohmygod his VOICE). So what I mean to say is that if people want to see more and/or have specific suggestions, I can probably be egged on. I live for the praise of my readers. Though I could also get Covid or develop a responsible work ethic at any moment, so no promises.
> 
> **NB: I've been devouring other people's Astarion fics in recent days, so if you think I've accidentally copied something from another author, please let me know so I can give credit. I don't think I have, but who knows what details my brain might have sponged up.

_A Beginning_

That thrice-damned bard has finally finished, and you need a drink.

You turn away from the fire and the crowd of tieflings—how are they all so _loud_?—and you’re halfway back to your tent and the bottle of rum you’ve got stashed there when you see a rather more appealing prospect. Astarion has found a spot in the shadows, free from party-goers and in relative seclusion beyond the tents. He’s leaning with his back to a tree, all gleaming eyes as he watches the revellers further off, and he’s holding a bottle of his own—wine, knowing him.

He smiles when he sees you looking, and smiles wider when you walk over and sit on the ground beside him. You cross your legs primly, and brush some imaginary dust from your knee. Not because you’re prim, but because you want to see the hint of fang that will appear at the edge of his smile when he’s trying to decide whether to tease you.

The fang appears. “Just sitting near me,” he says, “and already she feels dirty. Positively hurtful. You should have more respect, you know. They tell me I’m a _hero_.”

“You are, are you?”

“I am.” He sighs. “You know, I never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought I’d be the one they toast for _saving_ so many lives. And now that I’m here…” He lifts his wine bottle into the air, as if he might make a toast, his face aglow with all the heroism—and then he lets the mask drop. “I hate it. This is awful.” And he takes a long swig of the wine.

You laugh. “Come on, it can’t be that bad. Heroes are—looked up to.”

He gives you a flat look.

“Admired?”

“I don’t want to be _admired_.”

“Worshipped?”

He pauses at that, and lowers the bottle. He smirks. “Closer. But so far there’s been nothing of the sort. Just a pat on the head, and vinegar for wine.” And he sighs again. He has somehow ended up much closer to you than when you first sat down, in all his languishing. “And anyway,” he adds, “mere worship is no good to me. Not if it’s… abstract.”

“What should it be if not abstract?”

His eyes crinkle at the edges when you make the mistake of meeting his gaze. “Concrete,” he tells you. “Tactile.” He has a sinful, precise voice, and you hear every sharp consonant as he savours the words.

You manage to tear your eyes away, though you hesitated longer than you should have. To distract yourself, you pluck his wine bottle away and take a long drink. It’s actually quite nice, rich and sharp. You’re very aware that he’s leaned in close as you were drinking, and now his arm winds around your shoulder as he takes the bottle back again. “That’s mine, you know,” he says against your ear. “You could have asked before putting your mouth all over it.”

You roll your eyes, but the closeness of the whisper also makes you shiver, and you know he felt it. You let yourself lean back, press in against him, and his arm drapes more comfortably across you. You twine your fingers with his. You and Astarion have flirted before, of course, you flirt all the time. But it’s never been quite this focused before. “You’re one to talk,” you say softly, “about putting your mouth places without asking.”

His breath hisses in a little, but you think he’s amused. “I was in a pitiably desperate state. As you clearly are now, with my poor wine bottle.” Then his voice lowers, and you can almost feel his lips on your ear. “Of course, I did ask in the end. I quite like knowing that someone wants my mouth on them.”

You shiver again, and you can feel the chuckle that rumbles through him. He’s brought his other hand to your waist, where he squeezes, and you make a small noise. Definitely not a squeak.

“It takes so little to make you squirm.” This time he’s making no attempt to keep his lips off your ear as he speaks. “So fierce in battle, but so—soft—” his fingers dig in. “—in other circumstances.” His words are burying themselves somewhere deep in your chest, a helpless core of you.

You turn your head and try for a bit of courage, of playfulness. “Are you angling to bite me again?”

A fang appears at the edge of his smile. “Oh, absolutely.” His hand finds your chin, holding your head in place. You’re very conscious of how closely he’s wrapped around you, of the warmth of him against your back. There’s a long moment where he merely looks at you, as if considering. Then something lights in his eyes, and he speaks: “Do you think about that night? Savour the feeling of it? My teeth in your neck?”

You make a small noise, a catch in your breath, and he leans his face in closer. You can see his pale eyelashes when his gaze flickers down to your lips, and then you’re caught by the jewel-dark eyes when he looks back up again. “Do you think about me behind you,” he murmurs, “and how I held you there? How you _wriggled_ against me? How your heartbeat grew… frantic?” His fingers have wrapped themselves around your wrist, and you wonder how fast the blood must be pounding through you now.

You swallow. The lightness of tone is entirely unconvincing as you whisper, “I thought you wanted to be worshipped.”

He chuckles, a low sound that you feel in your belly. “Oh _no_ , darling.” He presses his lips to your jaw, and then to the delicate skin beneath your ear. “I want to be _feared_ ,” he tells you, so softly that the words are just for you. “I want you to wake up in the darkest part of the night, squirming in that pathetic little shirt you wear to sleep, wet with wondering what I might do to you.”

You’ve gone limp in his arms, something in your brain switching off as his voice washes over you. This feeling isn’t fear, not really—you know Astarion wouldn’t hurt you, he’s saved your life as often as you’ve saved his, and his lips are so gentle against your skin—but oh, how your heart is pounding-

Astarion seems to be enjoying every bit of your reaction. He pulls you more fully into his lap, and there’s a clever thing he does with draping his cloak so that only the two of you know that he’s unlacing the front of your trousers. “Astarion,” you start to say, and he puts a hand over your mouth, gently gripping your jaw. His other hand finds its way past the laces and down, and then he’s hooking a finger into you.

“Darling,” he purrs against your neck, “how enchantingly depraved you are. I had an inkling after your _penance_ at the temple, of course. What is it that’s gotten you so wet, hm?” He slides a second finger in beside the first, and you bite back a moan. Won’t people see you? You should want to stop Astarion, want to shout at him for the way he’s so openly tracing kisses up the side of your jaw— “You’ll have to tell me, love,” he breathes, “so that I’ll know what to do to you when we move to my tent. Is it the pain that you want? My teeth?” You feel them against your neck, just a reminder. “Or is it,” he squeezes the hand still wrapped around your jaw, “giving up your control? The heavens know, you are a _sweet_ little thing,”—gods, his voice is like velvet, and he’s started to move those fingers inside you—“and perhaps all you want is to be my good girl, darling, is it? Want me to do as I _please_ with you?”

You make an inarticulate sound against his hand, one you should plan to be embarrassed about later, and Astarion laughs deep in his chest. “Oh, you’re delicious.” He pulls his hand out of your trousers, makes sure you’re watching, and licks his fingers with all the smugness of a cat. Then he tells you, quite conversationally, “You’re going to go to my tent, and take all your clothes off while you wait for me.” He finally releases your jaw, and when you turn your head back to him, he kisses you. Properly, for the first time. It’s searing, his mouth hot with blood and magic where you had thought a vampire might be cold, and you no longer have the heart to care who sees you clinging to him. You hear a catcall from someone off by the fire, and you’re both left out of breath when you break apart.

“What will you be doing?” you ask, finally finding your voice. Every part of you is on fire, and the thought of having to wait for him, all alone, makes your lust-drunk brain stutter and trip-

“I,” he says, with a smirk that is itself an outrage, “will be finding us more wine.”


	2. Jealous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The people have spoken and I, slave to procrastination, have listened. Also YouTube has now got my number and keeps recommending new Astarion clips, so it's really not my fault.
> 
> I make no promises about further chapters, as life is quite busy, but hopefully this one is an acceptable offering.
> 
> As usual, I live for comments, feedback, praise... but most of all, thanks for reading!

_Jealous_

When the tent-flap is pulled back and a dark figure ducks in, there is a moment where, ludicrously, you think it isn’t him. Fear spikes through you. “Astarion?” You’ve said it before you can stop yourself.

“Who else would it be?” You can hear the amusement in his voice. The tent is dark again and your eyes are adjusting. You can see his silver hair, the gleam of his smile.

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “I was just-“ and then you stop, because he has stepped closer, and you can feel him looking at you, at every inch.

“Oh, you _have_ been good.” He snaps his fingers and a sphere of light crackles into being above your heads. Astarion is still wearing all of _his_ clothes, which suddenly feels very unfair. “What would you have done, if it had been someone else walking in on you?”

You frown at the witchlight. “I really doubt this is what the ancient creator of your amulet intended for that spell.”

“Now, now.” He circles behind you, pulls you in against him. He keeps his hands on your hips, fingers pressing in. “If you think you can distract me from something that makes your cheeks turn such a charming shade of red,” he says into your ear, “you are very much mistaken. Would it have made a difference who saw you? What would you have done if Shadowheart had stepped in?”

You scoff.

“What about Wyll, hm? Or Gale?”

You flinch and try to disguise it by leaning into him. “Astarion-“

“Was that a _reaction_? Our resident wizard?” Astarion sounds delighted, and you can’t help the catch in your breath when his hands begin to move. He skims a palm up your chest, cupping a breast. “Does it thrill you, the thought of our bookish friend seeing these? Do you think he wonders what you look like? Whether some parts of you,”—he pinches your nipple, quite suddenly, and you gasp—“are as pink and rosy as your little mouth?”

“No,” you try to say.

Astarion goes stiff. “No?”

“No, I don’t think Gale wonders.”

Astarion relaxes again. “Really?” He winds his arms around you tighter. “I think he does. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, when you’re sweaty from a climb… when you bend over…”

You smile as his lips move against your neck. “You’ve noticed _him_ noticing? Are you jealous, Astarion?”

His lips pause. “Of course not.” His tone has only made you grin, which may be why he adds, “Cheeky thing. Why should I be _jealous_ , when I’m the one-“ his hand moves down now, and before you quite know what’s happening, he grips between your legs and he jams two fingers up into you, which, really, was far too easy because the gods know you’re already wet, “-the one enjoying you. And the one you make these delicious – little – noises – for.” He punctuates the last words with a sinfully effective motion inside you, one that has you almost whimpering each time. You feel helpless, played like a harp. The part of your brain that would normally resist, though, is failing to speak up, and you’re fairly sure it’s not down to the tadpole.

Astarion doesn’t give you time to follow the thought. Suddenly his hand is gone, and instead he’s turning you, capturing your lips with his. You’re lost for long moments in the taste of him, your arms around his neck, fingers in the softness of his hair. You feel him fumbling with his belt, and the ties of his trousers, and then he’s pulling you down to the tumble of blankets, rolling on top of you. You can feel the hardness of him between you. He breaks your kiss, and the eyes you look up into are dark, his pupils blown wide. “Do you want me to be jealous?” he asks against your lips. “Shall I growl over you? And,” you both shift, and now he’s pushing against your entrance, a timeless anticipation, “-and be _beastly_ , hm? Pull your hair, make you say my name?”

There’s a moment, then, where you’re looking deep into each other’s eyes, and he still hasn’t taken you, not quite. You brush your lips against his. You can feel the heat of his breath, can almost taste him still. “Go on,” you breathe. “Make me.”

His breath catches, and something unnameable flickers across his face. Then his fingers clench in your hair, hard. He holds your head to the ground as he enters you, a slow and aching movement. He stops, watching your face, and then he does it again, pushes deeper in. A few slow thrusts, and he’s buried in you, your legs wrapped over his hips, his nose touching yours, and it’s hard to know where you end and he begins. “There,” he whispers. “As we should be. Care to say it?”

You smile. “Say what?”

“Mm. Playing that game, are we?” He pulls on your hair, and you obediently tilt your head that way. He’s exposed the side of your neck. “You’re being terribly vexing, my love, so I’m going to bite you. Then I’ll ask you again.” You feel the heat of his mouth beneath your jaw, an open-mouthed, savouring kiss. He pulls out of you and thrusts in with more force than before, and then the very beginning of your gasp is the moment he sinks his teeth into your neck. Your eyes roll back, and you know you’ve made a wounded sort of sound, the shock of being doubly invaded. Your fingers clench helplessly on Astarion’s back, searching for purchase on the fabric of the shirt he’s still wearing, feeling some ancient recognition at the movement of the muscles in him. It’s strangely right, a profound and welcome ache. And now there’s a numbness, a floating feeling coursing through you a bit like the haze of alcohol, and there’s heat and wetness on your neck. There’s heat and wetness between your legs, too, a delicious ache where Astarion is moving within you—gods above, you’re feeling all over again how Astarion is _inside_ you—

The world shifts, tilts. His lips close over yours again and you taste salt, heat, blood on his tongue. He breaks away, and you can barely focus on his eyes. “Say it.” His voice is rougher now, and his words aren’t just for you. He’s saying them for himself too. “Who’s doing this to you, darling? Who’s having you?” A movement of his hips, and slickness against the ache within you. “ _Taking_ you?”

You manage a moan. You barely remember what you’re trying not to say.

“Right,” he says. He tugs your head to the other side now, and you can see his fangs even in the darkness. A snarl, built into the curve of his face. “Listen carefully.” He pulls your hair until you nod. “I’m going to bite you again. It will hurt more. And you’ll tell me if you want me to stop. Yes?”

You nod.

“Out loud.”

“Yes!”

You’ve barely finished the word when he’s ducking down and his lips are on the curve of your neck, closer to your throat than before. When his teeth sink in this time, it stings much more sharply. You manage not to make a noise at first, but then he begins to move inside you again, picking up speed. You’re being plundered and it just doesn’t end, he’s unrelenting, and each helpless noise drawn from your throat has to go past the white-hot sting of his teeth, he’s _devouring_ you-

He releases your neck and his voice is a growl, now, a low vibration that moves from his chest into yours. “ _Say it_.”

You try, you really do. “Ast-Astar-“ But he’s moving again, and the word is lost to an explosion of your senses, your body wracked with the ecstasy of coming apart around him. You cling to him, and when you can perceive again, you find you are saying it after all—“Astarion, _Astarion_ ”—right against his ear, until, with a groan, he’s coming apart in turn.

He stays where he is for moments afterwards, his breath ragged. “You,” he says eventually, “have gotten blood all over my shirt.”

You laugh. The sound is a bit weak, and he pushes himself up onto his elbows, enough to look down at you. His eyebrows rise. His face is smeared with blood, lips red, and it’s almost overwhelming. He would look feral, if it weren’t for the familiar smirk beginning to twist the corner of his mouth.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just—well, we’d better clean you up before I let you out of here. Or the tieflings will be after me for attempted murder. You look positively mauled.” And, almost thoughtfully, he leans down and runs his tongue along your throat.

“ _Astarion_ -“

“Stop wiggling, I’m only cleaning my plate.”

“I’m not a _plate_ -“

“True.” He’s holding one of your arms down, and you’re not trying all that hard to struggle now as he works along your neck. “I suppose my bed is more the plate, in this scenario. Oh, don’t _giggle_ , giggling is almost as bad as the squirming. Careful.” He finds your face, nose brushing yours. There’s a smugness to the set of his face, a loose laziness to his teasing. It may be, you realise, that you have never seen Astarion relax before. “Careful,” he continues, “or you may tempt me to further crimes.”

You brush a kiss across the tip of his nose, and you watch his eyes narrow. You’ve wound your arms around his neck again. “I should confess,” you tell him, “that I have a terrible weakness for criminals.”

He actually laughs. And he extracts himself from your arms, sits up, and begins pulling off his much-bloodied shirt.

“What’s so funny?”

“The way you said it. Eyes all wide. You must _confess_ it. Yes, darling, I must also _confess_ that the sky is blue. That fish live in water.” He’s back down now, and he pulls you against him, ignoring your huff of annoyance. “That the sun is bright. That a certain travelling companion of mine has a _weakness_ for silver-haired vampire spawn, and that, once I catch my breath, I intend to fuck her again until she says my name loud enough for even the drunk tieflings to hear it-“

“ _Astarion_.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’ll have to be _much_ louder than that.”


	3. Tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I keep trying to focus on my real work, and this keeps demanding to be written. Who am I to deny its siren call?
> 
> This chapter is a little more fluffy and I'm not sorry. I felt compelled to give us more character moments, because who can resist with a character as good as Astarion? But if and when I write more, fear not, there will be plenty of un-fluff again. Ooh, and a small note: I don't dislike Lae'zel, she just really hates my character in the game so I've decided to run with it a little. Apologies to anyone who really likes her, it's meant to be a biased lens.
> 
> Finally: thank you so much for all the really kind comments, you've really been making my day every time I see one. And as usual, thanks so much for reading.

_Tired_

Shadowheart has the time to wash her tunic for the first time in far too many days. She’s reached the part where she’s beating it across rocks—soap suds, and the satisfying _snap_ that she feels all up her arms with each swing—when a flicker at the corner of her eye tells her she isn’t alone at the river. She spins.

Astarion is standing further up the bank, a bundle of cloth in his arms. He raises a hand when she sees him, and wiggles his fingers in greeting. He’s not wearing a shirt.

Shadowheart narrows her eyes at him. “Am I meant to enjoy the view? Because I have to tell you, Astarion, you’re a bit pale.”

He sneers. “Oh, am I?” He crouches closer to the water. “No, darling, the view isn’t for your benefit, though by all means enjoy it. I’m afraid I’m here on the same dreary errand as yourself.” And, indeed, the cloth he’s holding is just barely recognisable as the frilly white shirts he favours. It’s been drenched in blood. The soap in his other hand is unlikely to do much.

Shadowheart eyes him. She almost makes a quip about how he usually manages not to spill his food down his front, but her mind is working and she finds she’s put together some rather specific noises she heard the night before, at the dark edge of the party. She raises an eyebrow at Astarion. “Fun night?”

His fangs gleam when he grins. “Oh, it _was_.” The look on his face would be enough to make most people blush.

Shadowheart doesn’t, of course. “Was it who I think it was?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t Wyll.” Astarion looks deeply pleased with himself. Shadowheart rolls her eyes and turns back to her washing. _Snap_ , as the cloth hits the rock. Astarion’s voice comes again: “Say, Shadowheart…”

She should have known he wanted something. He’s barely even pretending to be washing that shirt, it’s probably more a trophy than anything. “What, Astarion?”

“You’re a cleric.”

“What a keen eye you have.”

He smiles. “What I mean to say is, you’re a healer. And rather more… _open-minded_ than that hulking druid fellow.”

“Halsin.”

“Mm. Yes. The one who’s been so remarkably useless so far. What I was wondering about is this. Just hypothetically, you understand. Say someone had lost quite a bit of blood. And imagine, if you will, that I haven’t been in the habit of, er… _looking after_ anyone in that predicament before. Would a normal health potion do it, do you think?”

Shadowheart looks at him until he shifts a bit under her gaze. “Is she alright?”

Astarion lets some of the humour drop. “She was fine when I left her in her tent. I’m just being _nice_. Shocking, I know.”

“You did just say that you don’t normally look after them.”

And now his face has gone blank. “Perhaps I should have been more specific. My own expertise is mainly in animals. And I tend to kill them, you see, rather than draw out all the squealing.” He turns to focus on his shirt again, as if he’s perfectly calm, and Shadowheart sees for the first time the patterns of scarring that web across his back. “My only example for draining _higher-order_ beings, of course, is Cazador’s… work. And health and comfort have never been high on his list of priorities. Even when his playthings do survive.” He’s said the last quietly, as if he doesn’t really expect a response.

Shadowheart frowns as she watches him set to work on the shirt properly. He’s very complicated in some ways, Astarion. And very simple in others. Reaching a decision, Shadowheart rinses her tunic in the stream. “Right,” she says to the elf, “Come with me. A normal healing potion will only get you so far, but we can add to it. And pay attention, because I’m not going to babysit you through it the next time.”

…

You make it out of your tent, the morning after the party, but not very much farther than that. It’s a good thing that some of your companions have set up for breakfast just outside the tents, because when a wave of dizziness hits you, you’re able to make it look like you’re deliberately collapsing to sit beside Wyll.

He doesn’t seem entirely fooled. “Rough night, my friend?”

You hide your face by leaning down to relace your boot. “Fine, thanks.”

“You look tired.” Lae’zel’s tone is less friendly. The Githyanki warrior has liked you less and less, the longer you’ve been forced to travel together, and you can’t say that the antipathy is all on her side. You meet her gaze coolly until she bursts out with it: “Are you ill? Is it the parasite? You look… _weak_ , for the morning after victory.”

Wyll laughs. “That wasn’t what I was worried about. Did you really miss all of it, Lae’zel? Last night?”

“Miss what?” Lae’zel’s eyes narrow. “I was occupied with my own affairs.”

“Oh, I didn’t miss that either.” Wyll is grinning. “You’ve got nice taste in tails.” And he winks.

Lae’zel begins to spit and hiss back in her usual way, but you get the impression that she’s proud, on the whole, to have her conquests recognised. You turn to grab some of the breakfast that’s been laid out, just glad that the focus has shifted from you. Unfortunately, you find yourself face to face with Gale as you lean for the bread basket. He picks it up and holds it out for you. You take it silently. His expression is closed, thoughtful. “How’s your neck?” he asks quietly.

Your hands shoot to your throat, checking the knots there. You’d carefully put on your robe with the highest collar, and you’d even found a hood with nice long ties to wind around your neck for good measure. Maybe that had been overkill. Gale looks… not disappointed. Concerned, perhaps.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “Really. Just a little tired.” And you try for a smile.

You’re startled when Wyll claps you on the back. “Tired, she says! I’ll say.” And he falls into laughter again, as Lae’zel’s eyes narrow in renewed confusion. Wyll’s hand is still on your back, and you wonder if you can politely shift away. You’re fond of Wyll, really, but somehow you just don’t have the energy for this. Not right now. Not when it’s been hours since dawn, and you still haven’t seen-

“Astarion.” Gale says it, and your head snaps around before you can think about it. “What a lovely new outfit you’ve got there.”

Astarion is approaching from out of the trees, and he pauses to sneer at Gale. “Why, _thank_ you. It was the only even slightly acceptable thing that wretched gnome vendor had left. My one good shirt met an unfortunate end last night. And I’d rather not clatter about in armour until I absolutely must.” He reaches the circle of logs you’re all sitting at, and he settles beside you. It makes it rather cosy, with Wyll, you, and Astarion all in a row, but you don’t mind. It also puts Astarion squarely between you and Gale, which is perhaps not lost on the wizard. Astarion turns his expression on you, now, and the sneer softens. “What do you think, love? Don’t I look fetching?”

He has a new doublet, and the quality of it is clearly very fine. Unfortunately, it’s a bright, mustard yellow, criss-crossed with black embroidery. “Very lovely,” you say. Wyll chuckles; his hand disappeared from your back at some point after Astarion appeared. And then, when the others have turned to their food again, you lean closer to Astarion’s ear. “Your new shirt,” you tell him very quietly, “looks like Volo had a lovechild with a bumblebee.”

A look of absolute outrage crosses Astarion’s face, and his hand whips up to grip the back of your neck. “You _vicious_ thing,” he says, though you’re sure he’s trying not to smile. Your own smile might be infectious. His eyes are very red in the sunlight, and wide with wounded feeling. “How absolutely hurtful.” And he squeezes the fingers at the nape of your neck and gives a sharp little shake, as one might when scolding a puppy. You should probably stop giggling at him. “Apologise this instant.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, and manage to stop the giggling. “You’re still very handsome.”

Someone clears their throat, and you realise that the others are all watching you. You hastily move to pick your breakfast plate up again, and Astarion releases the back of your neck.

“Well, I for one like the new look, Astarion,” says Wyll, perhaps a touch too loudly. “Very bright. Sunny. We’ll need that, when we head into the dark soon.” And he launches off into a monologue—similar to what you’ve heard before, heroism to accomplish, the Blade of Frontiers won’t falter and so on, but it’s soothing and it distracts everyone from you and Astarion.

You’re trying to rub your neck surreptitiously. You didn’t mind at the time, but Astarion’s grip has brought out all the aching in the sides of your throat. When you look up, Gale is watching you closely. You smile, but it’s too late.

“I didn’t finish asking,” he says to you, right across Astarion. Almost palpably leaving the vampire out. “You seemed unsteady when you joined us earlier. Are you sure you’ll be alright for the hike today? We could always talk to the tieflings about a spare horse-“

Astarion has stiffened beside you, but you look at Gale as you respond. “That’s kind, really, but I’m fine. I’ve hiked through far worse, I’m plenty steady. And anyway,” you add, grinning at the thought, “If I swoon like the helpless maiden everyone seems to think I am today, I’m sure that Wyll will insist on personally carrying me the rest of the way. Can you imagine the Blade of Frontiers letting a horse do all the hero-work?”

“Can you imagine the Blade doing what now?” Wyll has tuned in at the sound of his name.

The conversation sinks back into comfortable bickering, and the worries about you are gradually lost in making fun of Wyll, which seems to be a cause that can unite all of you, even Wyll himself. You sit, listening and trying not to rub your neck again. You didn’t want Gale to worry, but at least it was nice of him to ask. If you’re being honest, you do feel very tired. Not like yourself.

It’s as everyone is cleaning up from breakfast and beginning to pack bags that Astarion pulls you aside. His puts his hands to the sides of your neck, very lightly this time. “This is hurting, isn’t it?” He watches your face closely, and apparently your expression is response enough. He smiles, just a little. “You know, you don’t have to be _noble_ in your suffering. You can tell me.” There’s a strange look on his face that makes you wonder, for an absurd moment, if he’s going to kiss you in front of everyone, after all the awkwardness of breakfast, just like that. Instead, he takes your hand. “Come with me, I’ve got something for you.”

“Is it another bumblebee doublet?”

“Hush.”

You follow him to his tent. Just stepping into the space is enough to make your heart speed up, especially when Astarion glances at you and says, “Unlace your robe.”

Eyes wide, you start on the ties. Does he really want to do this now?

He’s rummaging with a pack, and when he turns and sees your face, he almost laughs. “Not like that. No, I doubt our companions would thank us if I drained what little energy you have left.” He steps in close, and he kisses you, soft and warm. “You silly thing.” His fingers come to the knots at your throat, and he kisses you again, lightly, as if for good measure. “I only want to look at your neck.”

You let him untie your hood, which drops to the ground, and then the top of your robe. You can’t suppress a small shiver when the robe falls open, Astarion adjusting it past your shoulders. He saw far more of you last night, but something about this feels intimate in a new way. He presses a kiss to your collarbone for a moment, and then he tilts your chin up. You feel the faintest ghost of a touch at your neck, across the swollen redness that remains from his bites.

“Mm. I did rough you up, didn’t I?” His voice is contemplative.

You swallow. “I didn’t mind.”

There’s a smile in his response. “No. No, I made quite sure of that, as I recall. Still, we can take better care of you than this. Hold still for a moment.”

You stay perfectly, utterly still while he ducks away. It’s not important that you do so. It didn’t sound like an order, he probably doesn’t care either way. But something warms you as you do it, some nameless satisfaction, and a yearning for how he’ll react.

You’re rewarded with a small kiss to your jaw, and a murmured, “What a good girl you are.” He’s holding clean white bandages, and a small pot of salve. He begins to apply some to your neck, fingers gentle, and it’s cold on your skin, soothing. You let your eyes flutter shut. After the salve, he wraps the bandage around your throat, his movements careful and deliberate. “Is that too tight?”

You shake your head.

“Good.” He ties up the ends, tucking the bandage in on itself. His fingers don’t leave your neck, though.

You open your eyes to find him looking at you.

“What?”

He blinks. “I’m—not sure.” A pause. “It’s you. Why are you so comfortable?”

You look into his eyes, dark in his pale face. “You’re taking care of me. Should I be upset about that?”

He scoffs. “Certainly not. I’ll have you know that I don’t do this for—for just anyone. But I was hardly so considerate last night. I punctured your neck and drained your blood for my own enjoyment. Surely you should be a _bit_ wary of me. Do you have no survival instinct at all, is that what this is?” Even he seems unsure if he’s joking.

It’s your turn to put your hands to his neck. He stiffens, but he allows you to do it, which is something. “My survival instinct is just fine,” you tell him. “It’s what tells me that you’re not going to hurt me.” His eyebrows rise, a hint of derision, but you continue. “Oh, you _could_ hurt me, I’m well aware. You could hurt me easily, whenever you choose. But you’ve had every opportunity, and you haven’t _chosen_ to. That’s what I mean.”

“How do you know I won’t _choose_ to?”

You blink up at him. “I don’t.” You smile. “Nothing’s certain, I’m not that stupid. But I want to trust someone. I’m built that way, maybe that’s the part with the poor survival instinct. Wanting to trust someone, not wanting to be enough all on my own. At the moment, the person I’ve chosen to trust is you.” And you shrug a little. “Maybe it’s a terrible mistake, and I’m doomed. So far it’s been fun, though.”

His expression shifts, and he manages a soft laugh now. “Fair enough, I suppose.” Winding an arm around, he pulls you closer. He kisses you, long but gentler than usual, searching you out. You melt against him, letting yourself enjoy the feeling. He resurfaces, eyes close to yours. “It has been fun so far. Before I forget, though.” He produces a small bottle from his pocket, and, holding it up to you, he uncorks it. “Drink this for me, would you?”

You look into his eyes. He hasn’t told you what it is, and the bottle is unremarkable. Keeping your eyes on his, you touch your lips to the rim, and when Astarion tilts it, you drink. You’re conscious of his gaze on you, on the movement of your throat when you swallow, on the swipe of your tongue to catch the last drop. It’s some kind of potion, sour and sweet. He lets the bottle fall to the ground when you’re done, a soft thunk, and now he kisses you much less gently. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and it’s some moments before you finally break apart.

It’s Astarion who pulls away, not ungently. “You should go.” He gives you a nudge towards the tent flap. “And I should pack. We don’t want to hold the others up.”

“No,” you agree. You touch your neck, safely wrapped away. “And thank you.”

He has turned to his packing, and he nods without looking at you.

You leave, already feeling less tired and more alive. Maybe it was the potion. Maybe it’s just Astarion.

He’s probably right. You probably do lack any survival instinct, and you probably are doomed.


	4. Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt the people deserved smut. 
> 
> Hopefully the writing and smut quality haven't suffered since I last posted; life has been hectic and it took ages to write this. I am getting far too attached to the character of this pale and pointy elf. I hope I've done him justice.
> 
> Thank you so much for all comments and kudos. Your kind comments truly make my day and give me the heart to keep writing, on this and in general. :)

_Yours_

Astarion is feeling… _cheerful_. It’s an unfamiliar sort of emotion. Been ages, hasn’t it? He’s felt pleasure in years past, not infrequently. Joy of various dark and caustic permutations. Hilarity; amusement; relief. Satisfaction. He catalogues these, as the hike continues through these wretched woods that he’s come to know all too well in recent days. It’s the quietness of it, he finally decides. That’s what feels so strange. It’s not a sharp emotion. Astarion has been at home in sharp things—teeth, knives, words. Dullness when his edge has been scraped too often for too long. But not like this—this isn’t dull. It’s _soft_.

He’s not sure what to make of that.

It seems fitting, though, given that the source of this cheer is herself distinctly _soft_. Soft skin, soft lips, soft little _whimpers_ when he was buried in the softness of—right, no, he’s going to stop that line of thought. An erection is a level of distraction he doesn’t need right now. He can’t keep his eyes from flitting up to watch her again, though. She’s walking towards the front of the party, as is her habit. He’s decided that she can’t help that—head-first into danger, like a lamb to the slaughter. If lambs crackled with the power of pent-up magic.

He’s going to have her again tonight. He decided that hours ago. The real question is _how_. And he’s been letting himself get quite cheerful about this question in particular, if he’s being honest. It’s the feeling of options. Choices. The deliciousness of a blank canvas, and a brush—or a knife—in his hand. His alone. He has a suspicion that she’ll do whatever he says. That she will _want_ to do whatever he says.

That’s another line of thought he should stop.

She’s paused by a tree up ahead, pointing something out to Wyll. A bird, green as a lime. Of course she has stopped to look at a fucking bird. By all rights, Astarion should find her irritating. All sunlight and merriment and—and now she’s noticed a _second_ bird. Gale stops to look as well, and Wyll starts nattering on about something to do with pirate ships. Astarion plasters a polite sort of look onto his face. Which, for him, is probably still visibly quite bored.

On all fours. On all fours, and from behind. That’s one of the options, for how he might take her later. He’s been toying with it, watching the way her hips sway as she moves. It would have its advantages. A proper angle for pulling her hair, which the darling, depraved creature seems to enjoy. A lovely view.

His plan has shifted, though, the longer they walk. He’s not sure if it’s different today, or if he’s just noticing it more. But whenever she pauses, or chatters with one of the others—which is frequently, as she’s so dreadfully amiable—Astarion sees the others transfixed by her. Wyll’s hand skims along her waist when the terrain gets steep, gallant enough to make Astarion sneer. Gale trails after her like a kicked puppy. Even Shadowheart looks up, every now and then, to keep an eye on her.

Astarion’s new plan—the option that seems most urgently suitable, because he can certainly move on to the rest—is whatever will be the _loudest_. He doesn’t just want to fuck her, he wants the others to _know_ that he is fucking her. That all that soft, sunny surface, and all the power she hides underneath, is his particular treat. To do with as he pleases. _Possession_ is a strong word. It’s just that Astarion has never much liked sharing his toys. And it’s been so long since he’s had one quite this nice, one that was his, rather than-

He blinks. None of that. He’s _cheerful_ today, he gets to enjoy that. Now. Loud, that was the plan. What would make her really wail? It’ll have to be his tongue, at least at first. Some people are put off by the fangs, of course, but this one won’t be. Pull her into his tent after dinner, perhaps, and strip her. She’s very biddable without clothes. Then lay her out like a buffet, hook her knees over his shoulders so she can’t wiggle away, and see which spots lead to the very most wanton noises-

He’s going to tent his trousers if he keeps this up. He wonders if she can feel his gaze, because she’s turned around just now and looked right at him. He only looks back, but it’s enough to make her smile that solemn little smile, and for a blush to suffuse her face. Blood rushing visibly through her soft skin. That should be illegal, that part.

“Has she done something, Astarion?” Lae’zel’s words pierce through his reverie, and he turns to look at the warrior.

“Pardon?”

“Has she done something to make you angry? You look as if you want to eat her.”

Astarion doesn’t stop laughing until Shadowheart, who is a few feet ahead and certainly heard the whole thing, turns and gives him the most scorchingly unimpressed look he’s seen in centuries.

…

You haven’t been able to stop thinking about Astarion all day. It hasn’t helped that he’s been watching you all through the long hike, the feeling of his eyes on you almost a physical sensation. It’s made you conscious of your every movement. Almost like you’re being hunted. And gods help you now that you’ve had that thought and connected it to Astarion. You make the mistake of looking back at him at one point. There it is. The look on his face is intent, about as quietly predatory as you’d imagined. And now you’ve got a whole different kind of ache to worry about from the one in your neck.

Is this normal? This can’t be normal. You’re trapped in the wilderness with a horrible creature in your actual skull, and all you can think about is a man you’ve barely known for a couple of weeks. Maybe he could take you against a tree? Surely the party will stop for a meal in the next hour or so, and you could-

This isn’t helping anything. Your job right now is to get to a destination, and if you sink into distraction, anything could happen in a place like this. You’re not usually one to stray from the goal. You’ll just have to do your best to ignore this… state.

Unfortunately, your efforts to ignore it haven’t made much progress by the time the party reaches the village abandoned by the goblins. Shadowheart wants to search the place for clues—there’s a look in her eye that tells you not to ask questions—and Wyll is keen on clearing the place of any goblin survivors and scavenging for supplies.

As the de facto diplomat of the group, you find yourself talking to Halsin while the others set up.

“It’s unclear,” the druid is saying, “where the entrance is. It may be a matter of days before we find our way down, but find it we will.” He smiles a little, as if reassured by his own words, and then he eyes you. “Is everything well?”

You blink. “Perfectly. Why?”

He doesn’t quite shrug. “There’s been a tension. Among your party. It can be difficult, being the-“ he searches for the word for a moment. “-the inflection point, in a group. If you stay steady, I think, the others will endure. And if you ignite, they will ignite too.”

It’s your turn to eye him. “Do you really think so? I don’t feel like I have any—any control over them.”

“Not control. Influence, perhaps. They respond to you. They watch you. Some,” his expression grows amused, “more obviously than others.” He’s looking over your shoulder now.

You turn to find Astarion behind you. _Right_ behind you. You try to hide your flinch, but he raises an eyebrow anyway, looking down his nose at you. “Jumpy little thing. I’ve come to fetch you. Wyll has ordained that we should search the houses at the top of the hill.”

“We?”

“Mm. You and I. Dividing. Conquering.” He doesn’t try to hide his smirk.

You duck your head, hoping that Halsin won’t see your expression. “Sorry, Master Halsin. It seems my companions do need me.” You grip Astarion’s arm. “Let’s continue our conversation in a few—a little while.” And you start off up the hill, towing Astarion along after you. There’s a cluster of dilapidated buildings up here, plus the old windmill. Lots of places to search. Or hide.

Astarion pulls his arm away when you reach the top of the hill. “Must you call him _Master_?”

You look at him. He’s trying for haughty, but there’s a pout to it. “He _is_ a Master,” you point out.

“Yes.” Astarion steps in close. “But he’s not _your_ master.” He puts his hand to your chin, lets his thumb rest against your lips for a moment. “I find I don’t much like the sound of it, in your mouth.” And he looks into your eyes with that long-lashed, entreating look he can sometimes muster. His thumb brushes across your lips again. “Humour me?”

You look up into his face. Close enough to kiss, practically drenching you in very practiced, very _effective_ appeal. You could make a quip, about how you have no master at all, or about how he seems very concerned with what ends up in your mouth. It occurs to you, though, that _master_ is a very, very specific word for Astarion. You take hold of his hand and bring the palm to your lips, pressing a kiss into the skin, letting your eyes close for a moment. When you open them again, Astarion’s face is very still. He doesn’t move, but he doesn’t tug his hand away. “I’ll stop saying it,” you tell him. “Now are we going to search these houses?”

Life flashes back into him, and amusement with it. “Of course not.” He grabs your waist and pulls you in, and you couldn’t say which of you has kissed the other, only that now your arms are around his neck and his tongue is in your mouth and you might have forgotten how to breathe. He resurfaces eventually, enough to jerk his head towards the nearest house. “In there. Or I _will_ undress you in the street.”

You turn to obey, but you hesitate at the door. “Don’t we need to check for goblins?”

He’s already pulled a dagger from his boot. “Darling, I will murder anything that tries to delay me even slightly, goblin or otherwise. Now stand back, and start unlacing your robe.”

You watch him brace his shoulder against the door, your eyes wide. He shoves once, hard, and the door burst open. Luckily, nothing reacts from inside.

Astarion looks around for a moment before sheathing his dagger again. Then he turns to you, and his eyes narrow. “This won’t do at all.” He’s back to you in a couple of strides, and he grips you by the jaw. Leaning in close, he speaks softly against your ear. “I’m in a rather impatient mood, love, so you must tell me if you want me to stop. Is that clear?” He waits until you murmur agreement. Then his free hand moves to your throat, and he begins working at the ties there. “Now. Remind me what I said about your robe?”

You swallow. “That I should unlace it?”

“That’s correct.” He hasn’t released your jaw, holding firm, though now he brushes a kiss against your cheek. His other hand is continuing with the laces; he’s at your collarbone now. “And did you do as I asked?”

“N-no.”

“No, you didn’t. Which sadly leaves me no choice but to do it myself. So,” he brushes a kiss, feather-light, against the curve of your ear, and his voice has gone very quiet. “Stay still for me.” Then he releases your jaw, and he begins in earnest to pull apart the laces down the front of your robe, all the way down to your waist. This exposes the shift you’re wearing underneath, and you’re not sure what Astarion is planning until he get his knife out again. He places the tip on your stomach, just above the navel, against the white fabric. And he looks into your eyes for a long moment, waiting for you to object, to falter. The corner of his mouth curves when you don’t. He grips the fabric, works the knife into it, and then in a few rough motions he’s cut a slit through the cloth clean from waist to collar. He pauses to admire his work, then, and trails a finger up the line of bare skin, from your navel, between your breasts, up to your throat. You’re almost afraid to breathe.

He takes hold of the edges of the fabric. “Am I opening this here, or inside?”

You almost hesitate. “In—inside.”

A gleam of a smile. “Feeling shy?” His fingers brush along the jagged cloth, and he tilts his head in against yours. “You really shouldn’t blush like this, it’s outrageously tempting. I can see it moving down your neck. Across your chest, the tops of your-” He’s following his word with a fingertip, and you gasp a little, in spite of yourself. He meets your eyes. “Right.” He grips you by the waist and walks you back through the door into the house, and he kicks the door shut without letting go of you.

Then, without further ado, he takes hold of the torn shift and pulls it apart, down and off your shoulders. “Arms.” He waits as you pull your arms from the sleeves and then he tugs the whole of it down, leaving you bare from the waist up. He takes in his work for a moment. “Better.” And he kisses you again, hard, before stepping back to look around the room. This is the ruined front room of a family long since fled, or worse. A wood stove sits in the corner, and half-broken chairs cluster around a sturdy dining table. It’s the table that Astarion nods at. “Sit up on the table, and take your underwear off.”

You move to obey. Astarion, meanwhile, prowls around the room, opening a door to scan the closet inside, and looking carefully out through the few broken windows. He steps over to where you’re sitting on the edge of the table, and he takes the underwear that you were about to set down. “I’ll take that.” He tucks it into his pocket, smirking at your expression. “Can you cast your little detection spell for us? The last thing I want is a goblin arrow in the back while I’m… busy.”

You frown. Normally you’d save your spells, but it’s not as if you’re likely to be doing more than travelling today. Focusing carefully, you cast Detect Evil. After a moment, you shake your head at Astarion. “Nothing.”

He smiles. “Excellent. Now, where were we?” He comes in close, leaning in to kiss your shoulder, your collarbone, the tender hollow at the base of your neck, while your hands tangle in his hair. He palms your breast, thumb working at the nipple, and his kisses move to the underside of your jaw, then your mouth, biting softly at your lower lip. You make a small noise against his mouth, and the kiss deepens as he takes the invitation. Not quite able to help yourself, you wrap your legs around him, searching with a hand for the ties of his trousers, the need you’ve been feeling all day rising to a fever pitch-

He draws back. He has that kiss-roughened look already, hair mussed and eyes dark, and you’re caught for a moment by how beautiful he is. Intoxicating—you could lose yourself in Astarion.

“I should confess,” he says, and you return to yourself just a bit, “before we go farther, that it’s possible I was a little incorrect with our instructions. About searching up here.” And now he’s wearing that sweet, pleading look that means he’s entirely up to something.

“What do you mean?”

“Well.” He pulls you closer, as if absently, and his hand slips between you. He slides fingers inside you, deliberate movements quite at odds with the apologetic tone as he speaks: “This was terribly silly of me. But now that I think about it, I seem to recall Wyll saying that you and I should search the houses down in the gully. And that—who was it? Ah, yes. That he and Gale would finish their search at the top of the hill.” He widens his eyes, all innocence, as the implications sink in. And the fingers inside you continue their subtle movement.

“So they might walk in on us?” you manage. You should unwrap your legs, you really should, push him away and be sensible, but-

“Mm, I doubt they’d come in. Not if the house is obviously _occupied_.”

You’re struggling to breathe steadily. His fingers are stoking the ache within you, and all you really want is his tongue back in your mouth, and the thrust of more than his fingers-

It’s a quick decision you come to. “We should make sure it’s obvious that it’s occupied, then,” you say.

His smile gleams. “I _knew_ you’d understand.” He puts his palm on your chest. “Now lie down for me. There’s a good girl.” You lie back on the table, and he pulls his fingers out of you, instead pushing your robe up. You have a feeling about what he’s thinking even before he drags one of the rickety chairs up to the table, positioning himself between your knees. He pats his shoulder. “Put your leg up here, pet.”

You shift one leg up, hooking your knee over Astarion’s shoulder. It exposes you completely; you can practically feel the heat of Astarion’s breath. He kisses the inside of your thigh, letting you feel how entirely open and vulnerable you are for a long moment. Then he leans in, and his mouth is on you.

You moan in spite of yourself. His mouth is hot and wet, soft as silk but insistent, and he’s gripping your legs to hold you in place as you squirm helplessly against him. He pauses long enough to give you a look through his lashes. “Make that little whimpering sound again, I liked that.”

You don’t have to force it; when his tongue begins its careful torture again, a helpless moan is torn from you. He rumbles his approval, and the sound does things to his mouth, and now you’ve brought your second leg up over his shoulder and he’s got a proper grip on your thighs, and you’ve never quite made sounds like this, never quite _felt_ anything like the sinful things this man is doing with his mouth-

You’re climbing, and climbing, and the pinnacle is in sight when he draws back. You lift your head to stare down at him in disbelief. Your chest is heaving with the intensity of it all, your body is white heat, and Astarion is _stopping_ , and _smirking_ at you, mouth wet with his success? “You,” you gasp at him, “you bastard, keep _going_ , you fucking-”

“Oh, no.” He’s standing up. “ _I_ don’t take orders, love.” He’s unlacing his trousers, his face openly hungry. “Get onto the ground. Onto your hands and knees.”

You scramble to obey. You couldn’t have said why you don’t mind him being such a tyrant, so degrading—why it thrills you, in fact, when under different circumstances you’d surely want to wipe the smugness right off his pretty face-

His fingers sink into your hips from behind, pulling you up to the right angle to feel him against your entrance. “Now,” he purrs, “what was it you wanted?”

Your cheek is against the dusty floor, your breasts squished beneath you, and you’re practically drunk on the feelings coursing through you. “Take me,” you manage, “please take me, Astarion.” You’d say anything, however stupid, if he would only just-

You feel his fingers curling into your hair, pulling just enough for you to feel it. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he says. His voice is low, now, rough with the edge of his slipping control.

You shift your hips desperately; you can _feel_ him there, hard and _almost_ where you need him- “Fuck me,” you beg, “Please, Astarion, I need you inside me, please fuck me-”

He complies, slamming into you. There’s no resistance, just slickness as he goes deep, and even he groans softly. “You,” he manages, his breath catching each time he moves his hips, “you… needy… thing…”

“Oh, gods,” you whimper, and this seems to set him off. His pace grows savage, and the noises you’re making probably sound like you’re in pain, like he’s stabbing you each time he slams against that electric heat-

When you come apart, it’s as if a sunburst has gone off in your head, as if the world whites out and the only thing is Astarion, pushing you into the ground, because surely without him you’d simply float away.

He’s turning you before you’ve quite come back to yourself, sliding back into you from the front, and your eyes focus as his fingers clamp around your jaw. “Look at me,” he grates out. You do. His face is tense, almost pained, his eyes so dark a red they are almost black now. He picks up his pace again, pistoning in and out of you.

You’re not sure what prompts you to do it, but you run your hands up his chest, rest your palm against his face. “I’m - yours,” you manage, looking up into his eyes.

He makes an odd noise, helpless and guttural. He tears your hand away from his face, slamming it against the floor instead. His eyebrows are rising, his face seizing up.

“Yours,” you gasp, and, “yours,” when he thrusts in again.

With a muffled groan, he curls down over you, his thrusts growing erratic as he spends himself inside you. You hold him, running your fingers through his hair, kissing the side of his face while his breathing slows.

It’s a little while, a little ocean of space and time, before he shifts and lifts his weight off of you. He kisses you, and he whispers against your ear: “You should be careful what you say to me, you sweet little fool.” And then he kisses you again, soft and lingering. Then he draws away.

You watch him get to his feet, reluctantly. More reluctantly, you follow a moment later.

Repairing your robe enough to go back outside is quite an enterprise. Astarion helps you retie the laces, but the satisfaction on his face rather undermines the sympathy he voices when you discover that the tear up the front of your shift really can’t be fully hidden.

Astarion is the first to open the door and step back out into the street, and you can tell from the way he stiffens that you’re no longer alone. This gives you a moment to prepare yourself before you step out behind him.

Wyll and Gale, and for some reason Lae’zel, are standing a ways down the street. They’ve all turned to look at you as you emerge.

“Why, hello,” Astarion says, and the smooth surprise in his voice is really extremely convincing. “Have you finished searching the gully already?”

Wyll puts his hands on his hips; his expression is caught somewhere between amusement and annoyance. Gale is carefully studying his fingernails. “Astarion,” Wyll says, “You haven’t forgotten, have you, that I asked for the two of _you_ to search down in the gully? Gale and Lae’zel and I have been searching up here. Trying to, anyway.”

“The _gully_?” says Astarion, in tones of deepest astonishment. “I could have sworn you told me the _hill_. What a dreadful mistake. Terribly sorry.” He nods at the house the two of you have just left. “There’s nothing in that house, by the way. We checked _carefully_.”

Wyll puts a hand to his mouth for a moment, and you think he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m sure you did,” he finally says. “Why don’t you head down to the gully now, then? And you probably don’t need to check quite so carefully. Just for… efficiency’s sake.”

Astarion raises his eyebrows. “I’m not efficient, Wyll, I’m _effective_. Sometimes,” and he gives a little flourish with his hand, “you have to take your time, if you want to see… results.”

You think your face must be as pink as Gale’s, at this point. “We’ll search the gully,” you tell Wyll. “Sorry for the confusion.”

Lae’zel has been staring at you, and she takes this moment to chime in before Wyll can respond: “What happened to your robe?”

You almost jump. You stare down at your robe, and then you glance helplessly at Astarion. “It—I—uh—”

“She tripped,” says Astarion helpfully.

You look back at Lae’zel, very carefully avoiding looking at the others. “Yes. I… tripped. It was very odd. I’ll have to repair it later.”

Wyll is having trouble suppressing the laughter in his voice now. “Go on, you two. The gully’s not going to search itself. And Astarion—please don’t let her trip again. We’re regrouping in half an hour.”

You roll your eyes, but you follow Astarion as he turns to leave.

Behind you, you hear Lae’zel whisper all too audibly to one of the others: “I think they might have been mating.”

You smile, but you’re too distracted to laugh. Your mind it stuck on something else, and it rises to the forefront now that you’ve left the others. And now that Astarion is walking, silent and focused, up in front of you.

You’re trying to figure out what prompted you to say that to Astarion. At the very end, the part where you told him you were _his_. You’re not in love with Astarion, not _his_ in any deep sense. That would be ridiculous; you’ve only known him for a couple of weeks. It’s just that you had a sense, somehow, that in that moment, that was what he needed to hear. Something about the way that he wanted to see your face, perhaps.

You’re left just as distracted for the rest of the afternoon as you were this morning. Your reasons now, though, are very different.

More than ever, you realise that you want Astarion to trust you.


End file.
